


That's Me!

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [84]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 12:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2468447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agnes Dabree was a rising star in THRUSH until she ran up against Napoleon Solo.  For years her hatred festered against the UNCLE agent, but she had resigned herself to never getting her pound of flesh from him.  After all, doesn’t tipping someone down an elevator shaft deserves some sort of punishment?  THRUSH said no, but Agnes said yes - if only she could find him.</p><p>My thanks to Avery11 for her fabulous art!  It was just as I'd imagined!</p><p> </p><p>My thanks to my betas:  Sparky955, Yelizaveta, and Grey853</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's Me!

 

 

Agnes Dabree had suffered greatly at the hands of UNCLE and she’d never forgiven them for it. No, it wasn’t UNCLE, just Napoleon Solo. By God, she’d vowed to make that man pay for his last minute dodge.  He was the one who should have ended up at the bottom of that elevator shaft, not her. 

Yet the years had trickled by. First she had been hampered by her injuries.  Most people didn’t get the chance to walk away from a fall down an elevator shaft… well, crawled, in her case.  There had been months of healing followed by excruciating physical therapy. 

THRUSH, true to its nature, walked away from her project without even a tip of the hat. Of course, the fact that the information that Elmont had extracted from Waverly had proved to be bogus wasn’t exactly an overwhelming success.  She supposed they were lucky to escape with their lives, not that Elmont would know one way or the other.  The last time she’d seen him, he managed to drool and that was it. _Damn Solo_.  Elmont had been brilliant and exceedingly easy to manipulate.  She’d never found another that was as easy and as gifted.  Solo should be shot… no, too quick… racked… not messy enough… drawn and quartered very slowly… 

The car slowed and that woke her from her Death to Solo daydream. She studied the rolling hills.  Their grasses had yellowed under the California sun and the oak tree stood out against them, black hulking presences looming menacingly.  Yet cows gathered in the shade they provided even though it was far from hot.  Like THRUSH, the trees appeared evil, but at their heart, they really only had the good of others in mind and provided shelter from the heat. 

“Where are we, Monica?” Agnes asked as she struggled to get up out of her slump.  Curse the people who thought bucket seats were a promising trend.  She’d take a good bench seat any day.

Monica was her private companion and a fellow THRUSH agent. Agnes had had enough success with ensuing projects to keep her on the good side of THRUSH, but they’d never really trusted her after The Solo Incident, as she called it.  THRUSH made sure that she always had someone to help her along, be it concocting a new scheme or simply getting through her day.

“We are just coming up on a small community called Jackson. I made reservations for us at the National Hotel.”

“Why are we stopping here? And why now? Isn’t San Francisco just over that hill?”  Agnes had gotten set in her ways and preferred to travel by land these days.  Flying took such a toll on her.

“Because we have been driving for six hours now and it‘s nearly another four to San Francisco, according to the map. It’s quiet here and I thought it would do us both good to have a peaceful night sleep before the conference.  I booked you a room with a soaking tub and there’s reported to be a nice restaurant right about the corner.  You know how THRUSH is, so judgmental.  You want to be your best when you deliver the keynote address.”

Oh, yes, she knew how they were. For a long time, she fought her own private battle to be recognized as an equal with the other scientists.  Finally her time had come and tomorrow she would stand before them and address them as _my colleagues_ , even though she stood head and shoulders above them.

“Of course, that’s a very good idea.” She patted Monica on the shoulder, wincing as the movement pinched and twisted her back muscles.  It took nothing these days to make her ache from the top of her head to her toes. _Damn Solo_.  “You take good care of me, Monica.  Thank you.”

Monica slowed and took a right into downtown and drove down Main Street. “Look at the size of this place!  It’s not even big enough to change your mind.  One good sneeze and it would all be gone.”

“It is very small.” Agnes didn’t want to say that it felt as if the buildings were bearing down on her, leaning as if to topple over on her.  She’d suffered some brain damage in the fall and it had taken her some painful setbacks before she learned to keep such things to herself.  Instead, she pressed back into the seat in an attempt to escape their threat.

“The restaurant here is reputed to be the best in the entire area. If you aren’t too tired or sore, it might be a lovely pre-celebration treat.”  Monica slowed the car and parked beside the hotel.  A steep flight of stairs greeted them.  “Oh, no…”  She let her head thump back.  “I never thought to ask if it was accessible.”

“It’s all right, dear. I’m game if you will…”  Then Agnes pointed.  “Oh, look, there’s a ramp for us.”

“Thank the stars. I was afraid we were so far out in the boonies that they never heard of the Disability Act.”

                                                                                *****

Laughing, Napoleon turned back to his small cluster of students. “Now can someone tell me the difference between the cultivation of a merlot vine as opposed to a chardonnay…” he trailed off and shuddered.

“What’s wrong?” a petite young brunette asked as she looked up from her notebook.

“Someone walked over my grave.”

“That’s an odd saying.”

“It is…” Napoleon paused for a moment.  Out of Vinea’s large display window, he could see Illya talking with one of the delivery men.  They were debating something, although Napoleon couldn’t tell if it was the quality of the produce, the fact that the Mets lost so spectacularly last night or the fact that road construction was playing havoc with Jackson’s traffic.

All was right in his world, so why did he feel a sense of dread surrounding him? “If you could give me a moment, everyone.  Feel free to wander the showroom and examine the labels.  Take what we’ve been studying and find a label that you would like to discuss with our group.”

There were excited murmurs. They were young and eager to move.  Napoleon could remember those days, anything was better than sitting still.  Now it was one of his favorite pastimes, especially if a certain Russian was equally engaged.

He stepped out into the cool air. Even though the official start to fall was not far away, days in Jackson could go from blistering hot to bone-chilling cold within a day.  Two days ago, it was so hot Illya was considering moving his desk into the walk in freezer.  Now today it was cool enough for Napoleon to don a sweater.  Considering he felt every past abuse he’d put his body through in his fifty some-odd years on the planet, he preferred the warmth. 

Turning his face to a watery sun, Napoleon took a deep breath. It was okay.  They were okay.  Business was good, they had more than enough money to live on and they had each other.

Napoleon felt a tiny bristle of jealousy shoot through his stomach as the delivery man touched Illya’s arm in what seemed to Napoleon an overly-familiar way. He admonished himself.  He knew Illya would never look at another man now, but still, the need to claim Illya made him stride across the parking lot a bit more quickly.

Illya noticed his approach and his eyes lit up and a smile warmed his lips – Napoleon’s very own special smile – and suddenly Napoleon was on top of the world.

“Napoleon, this is Tamer Odsen. He’s just moved here from Scotland.”

Napoleon stuck out a hand. “Welcome to the Foothills.  What do you think so far?”

“It’s hot.” The man wiped the sweat from his brow.

“I was telling him to wait until June,” Illya joked.

“Is that the truth?” Tamer asked and both men nodded. “The coast is sounding better and better.”

                                                                                ****

Illya watched Napoleon as the truck rumbled away, a look of relief in Napoleon’s eyes.

‘We’ve been together too long for me not to know when you are distressed.” It was a statement, nothing more.

“I felt something. I can’t explain it, just a sense of something not being right.  Since neither of the buildings were on fire that only left you.”

“I’m flattered, but as you can see, I am fine.” Illya kicked back the dolly and pushed it towards the dry storage room.  He stopped when Napoleon remained quiet.  “What else is wrong, Napoleon?”

“Something. I just feel like… I don’t know.”  Napoleon sighed.  “There are times when I wish…”

“What?”

The smile was sad. “I don’t know. I guess I wish UNCLE hadn’t done their job so well.  I feel as if I’ve missed something important.”  One of his students came out and waved to him.  “Guess that’s my cue.”

“Napoleon, everything is all right.”

 

                                                                                *****

In all honesty, there was nothing more than Agnes wanted to do but sleep. She knew that movement would be good for her, but it was still hard.  Agnes downed her pain pills and then paused in front of the mirror.  Her room was lovely and beautifully appointed.  The bed was large and comfortable, the bathroom was spacious and there was even a private door to the balcony.  They had shared a glass of wine on it and Agnes had let Monica prattle on about the region and its history while she retreated to her daydreams of killing Solo.  She’d come up with so many lovely ways. 

It was a shame that Solo had dropped from sight. The rumor was that he was dead, even that he killed himself when a love affair went bad.  Agnes knew better, the way a particular devoted mate would know if something befell the other.  She knew he was still alive.

 

She put a gnarled finger up to touch a thick mass of scar tissue by her right eye. They had operated to relieve pressure in her brain and there had been trouble.  A massive infection nearly killed her and she wished it had at times.

A light tap on the door made her turn and she barely kept from moaning. _No, this is Monica’s night_ , she admonished herself.  The woman tended to her every need.  There was no reason to be petty and rob her of that, even if she was reported every one of Agnes’s actions to THRUSH.

“Are you all ready to go?”

“I am.” Agnes smiled and smoothed out her skirt.  “You look very lovely, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

Even though the restaurant was just a block away, Monica got the car and drove. Agnes was happy as it was mostly up hill.  They parked and Agnes slowly climbed out, looking around.  There were two buildings that shared the parking lot, a wine tasting room and the restaurant.

As they entered, she glanced over at the plaque announcing the impossible. “This is a five star restaurant?”  She frowned at the name…  It seemed familiar somehow, but she knew no chefs.

“Incredible, isn’t it? Out in the middle of nowhere and here it is.”

They were seated and immediately a waiter was there, draping a napkin over her lap and serving them each a small dish with two small squares upon it.

“Greetings and welcome to Taste. I am your waiter, Leland, and I will be happy to answer any questions that you might have about the menu.  First, may I offer you a drink from our bar or perhaps a glass of wine?”

“I would like a Tom Collins and my friend… a?” Monica looked over at her and Agnes had to think for a moment.

“I believe an Old Fashion, please.” Another man carried up a tray and Leland settled a small plate before each of them.

“An _amuse bouche_ from Chef.  This is watermelon, feta cheese and basil, sprinkled with a pink Himalayan salt.  The watermelon is compressed to concentrate its flavor.  Enjoy.”

“Oh, a nibble. We used to call this a nibble,” Agnes murmured.  She popped one in her mouth and gasped with delight.  “Oh, my, this is…”

“Incredible,” Monica agreed. She picked up the menu and sighed.  “Look at some of these dishes, Dr. Dabree.  Aren’t they incredible?”

“Incredible? I don’t even know what half of them are.”

“Do you have any questions I can answer?”  Leland appeared as if by magic. 

“Yes, what is everything?”

It took some serious effort, but they finally had their choices. Monica flirted openly with the young man, but Agnes kept her attention closer to home.

“Have you made a selection from our wine list?”

“Oh, there are so many choices.”

“I would be happy to send our sommelier to help you select.”

“Is he very good?”

“Mr. Solo is the best.”

Agnes choked on her sparkling water and it dribbled down her chin. Instantly, Leland was beside her, helping and effectively shielding her from the other patrons.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“One shouldn’t try to breathe and swallow at the same time,” she managed to say. “Tell me, would that be the Napoleon Solo?” 

Monica’s eyes widened. Like Agnes, she thought Solo was dead. This would be a major coup if they could claim to be the ones to take him to THRUSH’s particular type of justice.

“Yes, ma’am I guess it would be. I couldn’t imagine there being two of him in the world.   He runs Vinea next door and is an expert at local wines.”

“Please send him over.” Agnes heard herself say. Leland nodded and moved away.  She threw a frantic look over at her companion.  “Monica, what am I going to do?”

“You aren’t going to do anything. We are going to take care of it together, just as we do everything.”  Monica opened her purse and Agnes caught sight of a small pistol.  “It’s what we do.  Confirm, confront, remove.”

Agnes shook her head. “Not here, dear.  We are nothing if not discreet.  Recon first.”

A man dressed sharply in a tailored tuxedo walk up to the table. His hair was shot with gray at the temples and longer than she remembered.   There was no doubt it was Napoleon Solo.

“Good evening and welcome to Taste. I understand you have some questions about the wine list?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo. How have you been?”  Agnes struggled to keep her voice steady.  “It’s been a long time.”

“I’m sorry. Have we met?  The waiter told me this was your first visit here.”

“You must remember me, Mr. Solo. Agnes Dabree?”

His eyes grew concerned as he concentrated. “No, I’m sorry.  My memory isn’t what it used to be.  I can remember every wine I’ve sampled, yet, names are now my enemy.”  He smiled sincerely.  “I do apologize.”

“You don’t remember Elmont?” Agnes was now puzzled.  She couldn’t tell if he was lying or what.

“No, and again my apologies. Please give him my best when you see him.”

 “I will, thank you.”  Solo had killed Elmont, she was sure of it and yet there was no spark of recognition in his eyes.

“Now, if you will tell me your entrees, I will try to find something suitable for you.”

Monica rambled off their selection and Solo nodded, rubbing his hands together. “I will be right back.”

As he walked away, Agnes stared daggers into this back.

“What do you think is wrong with him?” Monica leaned forward to whisper. “It’s as if he’d never seen you before.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t recognize his own handiwork.” Agnes’s voice was laced with acid.  “Perhaps he doesn’t even care.  He is a master.”

“But working in a restaurant out here? No wonder we thought he was dead.  To a man like Solo, with his love for glitz and glamour, this place is just about hell.”

Solo returned with a tray, three bottles and six glasses. “Here we are.”  He set the tray down and poured a small amount from the first bottle into two glasses.

“We can’t drink all of that!” Agnes protested. _Or afford it,_ she added mentally. 

“I would agree. These are just to taste.  Now, this first wine is very crisp and a little sweet.  It will go well with the sea bass and still has enough flavor to compliment the lamb while not being overpowered by it.”

He had offered them the glasses when she saw it. There on his left ring finger was a wedding band. _Of course, it all made sense now,_ Agnes thought.  Then she had a devious thought, a deliciously evil thought.

“Are you married, Mr. Solo?”

The question startled him, but when he met her eyes, he was smiling. “Ah, yes, many years now.”

“I wondered what pulled you from New York to this small hamlet.”

“That’s one word for it. Jackson is lacking in many things, but it’s home.”

“Love does that to one.” Agnes sipped the wine and was startled.  It was very good.  “This is very nice.”

“Many people are surprised how flavorful the wines of the Shenandoah region of the Foothills are…” He prattled on and Agnes tuned him out.  She didn’t care about the wine or this wide spot in the road.  She had Napoleon Solo.  She suddenly realized that no one was speaking, but that Monica and Solo were both staring at her. 

“I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“Try this one,” Solo said, holding a glass out to her. She did and it was fine, too, as was the third.  In the end it was Monica who made the decision and Solo hurried away.

 

                                                                                                *****

 

Pausing at the bar, Napoleon ran his hand over the familiar curl of the bar’s lip.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked up into Stella’s eyes. She was the sensitive one of the two women who ran their bar.  A change in mood and she was on it.  It was what made her a good bartender.  She knew how to anticipate the needs of her customers.

“That older woman on Ten.”

“I see her,” Stella said, even though she was mixing a drink.

“She says she knows me from New York. She spoke as if we were old friends.”

“And?”

“I’ve never seen her before in my life.” Napoleon sighed dramatically.  “Have I gotten that old?”

“I hope not. I have plans for you later.” Illya said as he came around the bar and knelt to rummage through the stock of liquor bottles.   Stella moved off, giving the men some privacy.

Napoleon grinned. “What are you doing out here?  Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?”

“I ran out of brandy to flame the scallops.”

“Do me a favor?”

“Of course.” Illya found the bottle he wanted and straightened up.

“Do you see that woman on Ten?”

“The older or younger one?”

“Older. Do you recognize her?  From our New York days?”

Illya studied the woman until she became uncomfortable and began to shift beneath the intensity. She looked around and Illya instantly dropped his gaze to the maraschino cherries.  “I don’t really, but there is something vaguely familiar.  Is there trouble?”

“No, it’s just there are times I wish I could remember more.”

“I will visit the table before they leave and try to reverify.”

“Thanks, _Amante_.” Fingers, invisible to their patrons, touched and Napoleon felt revitalized.

“Just one of the many services I render.” Illya smiled and, with bottle in hand, he retreated to the kitchen.

“Better?” Stella asked as Napoleon filled a wine bucket with ice and then covered it with a pristine white cloth.

Leland approached. “Did they make a decision?”

“This Muscat.”

Leland made a face. “Don’t let Chef see that.  He will have his own little meltdown.”

“It’s not about what he wants; the customer is the one we serve. If they want Muscat with their sea bass and scallops, so be it.”  He set the bucket on a tray along with a well-chilled bottle of wine.  “Lee, did that table say anything about me?”

“They were asking a mess of questions and didn’t seem to believe it was really you. I reassured them it was.  Did I make a mistake?”

“What? No, not at all.”

Still, the face nagged at him. It was just out of his grasp… and the name, Elmont…

                                                                                ****

Agnes, well fed and well fuelled, could barely feel the street beneath her feet. She had not felt this happy in years.  Solo didn’t recognize her yet, but he would.  Before she was through, he would beg, cry and plead for mercy from her.

“What are we going to do?” Monica asked, doing her best to not trip over the uneven boards that created what passed for a sidewalk.  “Contact THRUSH?”

“Yes and no.” Agnes plowed up the ADA ramp, barely noticing the twinge in her back or legs.  For the first time in a long time, she was driven by pure adrenaline. 

“I’m not following you. THRUSH will want to know.  They’ll want him taken down.”

“I know, that’s why I don’t want to tell them. Monica, this man has tormented my dreams for years.  All the time I was recovering, I vowed revenge.  If we tell THRUSH, they will arrive with a sharpshooter and he will go down.  That’s too easy and too fast.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Something delightful!” She patted Monica’s hand happily.  “But first we need to get ready to address the conference tomorrow.”

“You are still going through with that?”

“I am.”

“But Solo.”

“Now that I know where he is, he will keep. We need to do a little research and obtain some resources, all without THRUSH catching on to what we are really doing.”

The flame of success and possible promotion burned bright in Monica’s eyes. Agnes didn’t lie to herself.  She knew her companion was ready to move on and if she had her way, Monica’s next assignment would be into THRUSH high command itself.

                                                                                *****

A week passed, then two and then a month. The strange encounter in the restaurant faded from Napoleon’s memory, as things were so apt to do now.  The holiday season was fast approaching, too fast for his tastes.  While he loved the hustle and bustle, Napoleon didn’t love the toll it took on his partner.  

Soon Taste would be booked solid for parties and that meant Napoleon would see less and less of Illya until Christmas Eve gave Illya back to him It was good business, but that didn’t mean that Napoleon had to like it.

His arm tightened around Illya’s waist as he thought about the months to come.

“Napoleon, is there a problem?” In his grip, Illya stirred, his voice still thick and slurred with sleep.

“Who? Me?  No, I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

“I feel like a tube of toothpaste, a bit squeezed in the middle.”

“Oh, sorry, reflex.”

“Pardon?”

“When the world gets crazy, I tend to hold on tighter.”

Illya rolled over to face him. “Is your world crazy, Napoleon?”

“Not at the moment, but I was thinking ahead.”

“Then do what I do.”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t think.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?”

Illya’s erection poked him. “You can think of nothing that would take your mind off the future?”

“You know, they always used to complain about me and my sex drive around HQ, but you leave me in the dust.”

“Still waters.”

                                                                                ****

 

It had been long, too long if anyone asked Agnes, but no one did. The conference was a huge success and many of her peers said that they never heard a more brilliantly or passionately rendered speech.  They spoke of her fire and her accomplishments, or her dedication and of the paths ahead.  They heralded her as a breath of fresh air and a trailblazer for future members.  They talked and talked and talked, but Agnes cared for none of their pretty words and empty accolades.  All she wanted was to get back up to that Podunk community.

Of course, she hadn’t let on. Instead she asked for and was granted a leave of absence.  She cited the need for more surgery, which wasn’t exactly a lie.  She was going to have a Soloectomy.  However, before she did, she looked up a couple of trusted friends, people who she could trust to keep their mouths shut and the minds open. 

Now she stood in the small kitchen of the rented house and tried to get her bearings. The house was in a small community outside of Jackson, far away, but close enough for her purposes.   There were two stories and a small garden overrun with flowers.  She paid them no mind.  She paid the community no mind.  All she thought about day and night was Napoleon Solo and how soon she would be free of him.

“Agnes, are you in here?” Monica came around the corner lugging a cardboard box of groceries. 

“I’m here.” She cleared off a table and Monica plunked the box down.  “I think that’s it.  The guys are bringing in the rest.”

“And what of your research, my dear?”

“Well, I had a bit of a stumbling block at first. I made some inquiries and there was no one who could verify a Mrs. Solo.  In fact, some of them looked at me quite queer when I asked.”

“Why is that?”

“This is going to come as a bit of a shock to you, Agnes, dear, but it would appear that Mr. Solo, man about town, is in fact, bent.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He’s gay, Agnes. It means he’d rather--”

“I know what it means,” she interrupted. “I just don’t… he was always out with this woman or that in his youth.”

“Well, now he steps out with one person, his former UNCLE partner, Illya Kuryakin.”

“The Russian?” Agnes shook her head until her artificially colored curls bounced.  “I cannot believe it.”

“Believe it. They are shacked up together.”

“What is the world coming to, Monica? This is going to gravely impact our plans.  Luring a woman away is one thing, but a man and an UNCLE agent?”

“Ah, but I have a plan.” She held up a glossy flyer.  “I found this.”

Agnes pulled out her reading glasses and started to read.

_Thinking about planning your holiday party? It’s never too early to discuss your holiday plans with Taste. Let us meet with you and carefully craft a menu to your specifications.  Your guests will thank you.  Book now and save with our pre-holiday rates.  Celebrate the Season of Giving with Taste._

“I don’t understand.”

Monica pointed to some very fine print. “Look on the bottom of the flyer”

She held the flyer at arm’s length. “Master Chef Illya Kuryakin.  What’s he playing at?”

“Remember how he suddenly went missing?”

“UNCLE sent him to cooking school? And yet those two were constantly able to thwart our plans.  It’s a strange world we live in now.”  Agnes took a moment to mourn the days gone by.  “You should have seen them in their prime.  Such worthy opponents, at least until they tossed me down that elevator shaft.”  She closed her eyes, smiling at those days, days free of pain and fear.  “You said you have a plan?”

“Oh, yes, it’s quite diabolical.”

“I like it already.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“The potential, dear, the potential.”

                                                                                ******

Napoleon took a deep breath, smiling at the bouquet of musky sweat, semen and stale aftershave. “You are my favorite fragrance.”

“My clients would not tend to agree with you.” Illya was sitting up and scratching his stomach, itchy from drying semen.

“What do they know?”

“Not that much apparently.”

“You have an appointment today?”

“Just a couple. Matt’s chef de cuisine today, so I told him I’d meet with our clients.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Both new.” Illya leaned in for a kiss.  “Listen, according to the weather, we are having an Indian summer right now.  How about I meet with them and then come back here and we can have a picnic?”

“Mmm, will you be serving anything I like?”

Illya’s smile was devilish. “Could be.”

                                                                ****

Illya pulled the motorcycle onto the dirt shoulder of the road and studied at the numbers on the mailboxes. Addresses were crazy things in the Foothills and it was more common to go by road markers than actually physical signs.  Even after his years here, it was still hard to find places outside of Jackson, much less some of the even smaller towns.  Volcano was only about twelve miles from Jackson, but it was a world away when it came to actually finding something.

Giving the bike some gas, he eased it down the drive, merely two ruts with a strip of grass in the middle. This was a very odd place to meet to discuss a big office party, but one thing that could be said about the Foothills – the folks weren’t exactly run-of-the-mill.

The numbers on the house matched the paper, so he parked the bike and climbed off. Something, nothing more than a half forgotten memory, tickled his neck as he pulled off his helmet and he shivered.  Had he still been an agent, he would be looking for cover.  Those days were long behind him.  The faintest of an ice cold breeze caught his hair and he grimaced. _So much for their picnic later._ Perhaps he would have to make it up to Napoleon by spreading out a blanket in their living room and dining in.  He hung his helmet on the handlebars and picked up his pace.

The thoughts happily cascaded through his head as he climbed up the narrow stairs and rapped on the front door. He took a moment to admire the lush flowers growing all around the porch.  He could do such things with them.

There was a whisper of noise and he started to turn when something hit his head in a much too-familiar fashion and he went down. He managed to think, _not again_ before passing out.

               

                                                                                                *****

Agnes looked up as two large men dragged a smaller and unconscious man in and dropped him unceremoniously to the floor.

“What have we here?”

“It’s that blond guy you told us to knock out.”

Agnes struggled to keep her cutting remark to herself. When she was a mover and a shaker for THRUSH, the level of henchmen seemed higher and more cultured.  The two she’d been given to ‘move her office’ were just this side of morons.

“Thank you Mr…?”

“Dutch.” Dutch pointed to his friend.  “That there’s Grady.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Dutch and Mr. Grady. Would you be so good as to truss up our friend?”

A look of confusion passed between the two. “Huh?”

“Tie him up,” Monica snapped as she entered and closed the front door.

“Why didn’t she just say so?” Grady went to fetch a rope while Dutch dragged Kuryakin to a chair.  “Wow, he’s small but heavy.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to bring the chair to him?” Agnes asked sweetly and hid her smile as a light bulb went off in the man’s head.

“Oh… yeah, it probably would have.” He hefted Kuryakin up into the chair and Monica sighed.

“Our glory days are far behind us, I fear.”

Agnes patted her hand. “It’s part of life, my dear.”  She studied the unconscious man.  “I’m afraid I never met Mr. Kuryakin myself, although I hear tell he was quite the terror.”

“Are you sure it’s the right guy?”

“They told me short and blond. He fits the bill.”  Agnes walked to a small table and picked up the ancient phone receiver.  Carefully she dialed a number and waited.

                                                                                *****

 

Napoleon looked up as the phone rang and then over at one of the two cats currently playing in a pile of socks. He wasn’t sure what it was, but socks seemed to bring out the kitten in both Moutard and Buerre Noir.  They rolled and tussled and raced through the pile.

“No holes, guys! Illya still hasn’t forgiven you for chewing a hole in his favor pair from last week.”  Napoleon left them to it and grabbed the phone.

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo. I have something of yours.”

He frowned at the voice. It was so familiar and yet not.  “Who is this?”

“Someone you wronged many years ago and I am here to set things right.”

The voice clicked. It was the woman from the restaurant and a swell of panic surged up from Napoleon’s stomach.  “Listen, lady, I don’t know you from Adam, but if you have a problem with me, it’s with me.  Leave Illya out of it.  He’s got nothing to do with this.”

The panic became an all-out war when he heard the sound of someone being beaten.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Solo, but your partner is collateral damage now.”  There was a soft laugh.  “Bye now.”

“NO! ILLYA!” Napoleon screamed into the receiver even while knowing full well it didn’t help.  For a moment, he stood there, his thoughts muddled and thick as if they were wading through waist deep mud.  Then he walked to the desk and opened up the top drawer.  He found the paper without even having to search for it.  When he’d put it there, it was with the hopes that it would never be needed.

He dialed the number and worked on controlling his breathing.

“Uncle Imports.”

“This is Agent Solo. I have a situation.  Please put me through to Section One, Number One.  Code Alpha, Charlie 2095.”

“Understood.”

As much as he knew it couldn’t happened, Napoleon longed to hear Alexander Waverly’s calm voice answering. The man who answered was a stranger, but he knew his duty to a retired agent.  Napoleon just hoped Illya was strong enough to last.

                                                                                *****

Having someone slap him awake rated up in Illya’s ten worst ways to have your sleep interrupted. His head ached and now so did his face.  He longed to lift an arm up to stay the hand, but he couldn’t move.

That made him open his eyes in enough time to allude the next blow.

“He’s awake, Mz. Dabree.”

“Dabree. The woman who corrected Illya’s attacker limped over to Illya and sneered at him.  “Did you have a pleasant nap, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“Yes, but I can’t say much for the wake-up call.” Illya anticipated the next blow.  THRUSH was so predictable.  Even without being formally introduced, he recognized the telltale signs.

“You’re very cocky for a man in your position.”

“I’m cocky in every position. Ask Napoleon.”  This blow went to his stomach and he gasped.

“That will teach you the meaning to that old adage, Silence is Golden.” She smiled, a feral thing, and Illya swallowed his next quip.  “That’s better.  I am Agnes Dabree.  You, of course, have heard of me.”

“No, I can’t say that I have, except I remember Napoleon mentioning you the other night. You dined in my restaurant.”

“I did. Who would have thought an UNCLE agent could find such a successful second career.”

Illya caught a thread of hope. “Uncle?  Whose uncle?”  Another slap.  “What did I say wrong?  Whose uncle?”

“You know very well.” Another woman had appeared.  She was younger and looked no less dangerous.  “The UNCLE.  The organization that employed you.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Don’t play coy.” Dabree grabbed his jaw and squeezed hard enough to make tears trickle from Illya’s eyes.  “You used to work for them.  You are Napoleon’s partner.”  She released him and Illya shook his head.

“Yes, I am Napoleon’s partner. He came stumbling into Jackson a few years ago and insisted I was his partner.  I didn’t know who the hell this Illya guy was he kept going on about, but the name was a good one, so I took it.”

“Very interesting.” The second woman was now in his face.  “What is your real name?”

Without batting an eyelash, Illya murmured, “Brad Slocomb.” He turned away as if he’d confessed to a great crime.  “Yeah, now you know why I needed a new name, a good name for the restaurant.   This guy came up to me and start throwing money at me saying that I’m his partner.  I’m not a fool.”

“What are you saying?” Dabree looked a bit confused.

“Whatever he needed to hear, I said it. Why not?” 

“But you live with him.” She sounded more sad now than anything else.

“That’s not a crime… well, it is sort of, but not one that most people pay any attention to around here.”

“He loves you.”

“No, he loves Illya, not me. I help him think for a little bit that the guy’s still around.  He knows better.”

“Do you love him?”

“I love his money. A man can put up with a helluva lot when there’s that kind of money involved.”  Illya hated himself for what he was saying, but he knew the truth, just as Napoleon did.  Right now, it was all about survival.

The second woman piped up. “So you are saying you only stay with him because of his money.”

“He keeps my restaurant open and I let him think of the old days. If I leave, he’ll find someone else, someone blond and… not tall.”

“My God, Agnes, Solo is more scarred than you are.”

“So what are we going to do with you, Mr. Kuryakin? Mr. Slocomb?”

“Let me go.”

“Why would we do that?”

“Whatever you think I’m good for, I can assure it it’s only cooking.”

“Prove it.”

Illya took a moment to consider that. “All right, let me go and I’ll cook for you.  According to Napoleon, his Illya couldn’t boil water.”

“That’s true,” Dabree admitted.

“I’ve cooked all my life and I can prove it.”

 

                                                                *****

 

Napoleon paced, paused long enough to look out the window, and then started pacing again. There was a knock on his door and he jumped.

Straightening his jacket, he walked quickly to it and opened it. It took him a minute, but then he placed a name with the face of the stranger standing there.  Tamer Odsen had a look of expectation around him.

“Can I help you?”

The man reached into his jacket and pulled out a gold ID card, one that hadn’t changed very much since Napoleon’s time with UNCLE. “I think the question is, can I help you, Mr. Solo?”

“You’re an UNCLE agent?”

“I am.”

Napoleon gestured him into the house and Tamer walked in, glancing around automatically, just as Napoleon would have done in his heyday. “I didn’t know… why?”

“Whatever you or anyone else might think, we keep an eye on our own. When we heard Agnes Dabree was in the area, I was assigned to make sure she didn’t try anything.”

“Who is she?” Napoleon gestured to a chair and then sat across from the younger man.

“She and her brother developed a device that could pull memories and information from a person’s head. When she tried it on Mr. Waverly, you took exception and dropped her down an elevator shaft.”

“All those scars? They are from that?”

“They are and during the scuffle, her brother was knocked under the ray and drained of everything. He was a vegetable until the day he died.”  Tamer shook his head slowly.  “Someone fed him bleach.  We suspect it was his sister.”

“So she has a lot to hate me for.”

“She does. She lost her standing with THRUSH, her only family, and replaced it with considerable pain.  It has taken her many years to recapture her reputation with them.  Now she wants you to suffer the way she did.”

“But Illya… he wasn’t involved, was he?”

“It doesn’t matter to her. Causing you pain, that’s what matters to her.”

“Poor Illya…” Napoleon wanted to rage and strike out.  “What can we do?”

“I have another dozen agents coming from the surrounding areas. Do you have any idea where he was headed this morning?”

“All he said was someone in Volcano wanted to have him to organize a holiday party for them.”

                                                                                ****

“I cook better when someone isn’t hanging over my shoulder,” Illya muttered as Agnes leaned in closer.

“What are you doing?” The eyes from behind the thick glasses nearly bulged out as she drew even closer.

“I’m making a simple dough for the noodles.” There weren’t a lot of options in their pantry, but Illya enjoyed the challenge.  He’d managed to cobble enough together to make a simple marinade.  He dusted off his hands.  “Now we need to let the dough rest for a few minutes for the glutens to develop.”

“What?” The two THRUSH henchmen were as curious as Dabree and her cohort were.

“Here.” Illya handed the closer man a colander.  “Go make yourself useful.”

“What do I do with this?”

“There are hundreds of blossom in the front of the house. Go pick some.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to make a salad.”

“Out of flowers?”

“Of course.” Illya stirred the sauce that was simmering and then tasted it.  He offered a spoonful to Dabree, who eyed it and then sampled it.

“It’s wonderful,” she admitted with a hint of surprise.

“Of course it is. I am a Master Chef and have a five star restaurant.  Of course it’s wonderful. This would be better with fresh rosemary and basil, but beggars can’t be choosers.” 

The man came back in, the colander filled with bright blossoms, pansies, nasturtiums, roses, and…

“This will be perfect.” He began to wash them under cold water.  “We will need some plates.”

                                                                                                ****

 

Agnes watched the man move around the kitchen with a practiced ease. She leaned close to Monica.  “What should we do?”

“I don’t understand.”

“If he isn’t to Solo as we thought, what should we do?”

“Demand a ransom from Solo and then kill him and this whoever he is.”

“You’re extremely cold-hearted, Monica. I like that in an associate.”  She licked her lips and savored the flavor still there.  “But after the meal.”

“Of course. I may be cold-hearted, but I am not a fool.”

                                                                                                *****

Illya kept his mouth shut as he viewed the mishmash of what passed for table settings. Apparently setting a table was not something taught at THRUSH’s School of Refinement.

“We are ready to eat,” he announced. As one of the men started to sit, Illya cleared his throat.  “Gentlemen always wait until the ladies are seated.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry,” mumbled Dutch.

Dabree and her female friend sat and then so did the henchmen. “Wait, where is your place setting?”  Dabree looked up at Illya with an air of suspicion. 

“A chef always serves his guest first and eats last. That way the food is served at its peak of flavor.”  He set a bowl of colorful blossoms in front of them.  “I would start with the rose pedals first.  They have to most delicate of flavors and then the pansies.  That will allow you to savor each taste sensation.”

“You first.” Dabree pushed her plate towards him.

Illya shrugged his shoulders and speared a soft pink rose pedal. He popped it into his mouth and chewed slowly.  “Mmm, the pink ones always taste the best.”

There was the sound of silverware clanking against porcelain and Illya offered a clean fork to Dabree.

“The orange ones are spicy.”

“Nasturtium are like that.” He let them finish and then scooped up the dishes.  “I will be back momentarily with your main course.”

                                                                                *****

Agnes had just finished her salad and taken a sip of a very drinkable red when she first noticed her vision had blurred slightly. She blinked and it seemed better.  She was just so tired and a little headache was digging at the back of her eye.

“Are you all right, dear?” Monica asked. She looked a bit flushed and anxious.

“I think so. Why do you ask?”

“You look a little yellow around the gills.”

“Do I?”

Suddenly one of the henchman doubled over with a groan. “Bathroom,” he gasped.

“That bastard cook poisoned us,” Monica spit out.

“Naw, he is always like this,” the man’s partner muttered. Then he winced as well.  He clutched his chest.  “Hel---“

All around her people were shouting, but they were oddly muffled. She tried to stand, but lacked the strength.

“It’s easier if you don’t fight it.” The voice was so familiar and she looked, then gasped.

“Elmont!”

“Hello, Agnes.”

“But you’re dead.”

“A condition you now share.”

“Then he did poison us.”

“You mustn’t blame Kuryakin. He is, after all, a trained UNCLE agent.”

“That’s not Kuryakin. Solo only thinks it is.”

“And a gifted storyteller as well.” Elmont indicated a glowing portal of light.  “Shall we go?”

“I’m going to Heaven?”

“With your track record? Not exactly.”

Agnes stood for the first time without pain in years. “I should hope not!  You meet a terrible class of people there.”

                                                                                *****

Illya finished plating the last entrée and decorated the top with a bit of leftover flower. He had to admit that it looked pretty good, if he did say so himself.

He picked up two plates and headed back into the dining room. He knew they planned to kill him, but his hope was that things would start to go his way.

As he entered, he smiled tightly and set the dishes down. Agnes’s head was lolling backward, while the two henchmen lay, twisted and convulsed, in pools of their own vomit on the floor.  The other woman, Monica, was face down in her salad plate. Illya smiled and breathed a sigh of relief.

“ _Bon appétit_.”  Then he straightened, wincing just a little and walked slowly to the front door.  “Have a nice death.”

                                                                                *****

 

Napoleon stood over a map of the region. He’d had Matt go through all the documentation for upcoming events and he had managed to track down two different addresses.

“I’m not even sure if either of these are potential targets.” He indicated two circles on the map.  “I would advise going in with minimal invasive tactics.  The place where they are holding him will most likily be back from the road and recently rented or the owner dispatched.  I can’t think a local would open his home to THRUSH any other way.  We are a pretty tight-knit community up here.”

“You really were, weren’t you?” Tamer Odsen was regarding him with a mixed look of envy and pride.  He’d been joined by another five agents, a small number considering the amount of land they had to cover.

“What?”

“Section Two.”

“Number One.” Napoleon smiled tightly.  “I was.  A lot of it is gone, but I still have enough up here to know that I need to protect my partner.  Now gather round.”

“The fastest way is to take 88, providing there’s no traffic. It will take about twenty minutes.”

“Better add five. There’s an accident in Pine Grove.”

“Oh, okay…” Then Napoleon caught his breath and spun around.  Illya was standing in the doorway.  “Illya…”  He caught himself, knowing how the man preferred not to have a fuss made.

“Sorry I missed lunch. There was a bit of an issue about payment.”  He walked slowly into the room.  “I think you should call Dr. Goyette, Napoleon.  I’m feeling a little punkish.”  Illya started to sag and was caught by two UNCLE agents.

“Do I know you?” He frowned, studying their faces.

“No, but you know me.” Tamer replaced one of the agents.

“Ah, yes, the delivery man. I don’t think we need anything…”  Illya’s head began to sag, but then it came up.  “The address is in my jacket pocket.”

“Are the THRUSH still there?” Tamer asked.

“Oh, they won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Napoleon replaced the other agent, his heart singing at the familiar feeling of his partner at his side. “Are they dead, Illya?”

“ _Digitalis purpurea_. Very dead.”

“What?” Tamer looked from him to Napoleon and back.

Illya drew a deep breath and sighed. “Don’t they teach you agents anything? _Digitalis purpurea_.”

“Foxglove. The gardens around here are thick with it,” Napoleon said, guiding Illya towards his favorite chair.  “It’s also poisonous if ingested.”  Napoleon smiled tightly.  “How did you get them to eat it?”

“One of the goons picked it for the salad. Who am I to argue what someone wants on their salad.  The customer is always…”  And Illya went limp.

“Right.” Napoleon got Illya into a chair.  “I suspect you will want to clean up that package before the local police get word of it.”

“We’ll take care of everything, Mr. Solo.” Tamer looked down at the unconscious agent.  “But how did he--?”

“I have found in my dealings with Illya that it is often better not to ask why or how but rather celebrate his victories.”

Tamer nodded. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Yes, the phone. There are a couple of phone calls I need to make.”

                                                                                                ****

                                               

Illya stared up at the ceiling above his bed. “We really need to paint this next spring.”

Napoleon set down a tray on the bedside table. “Why do you say that?”

“The ceiling is flaking.” He helped Illya sit up.  “It’s probably from all the heat we generate.”

Illya grunted as Napoleon adjusted the pillows. “Not for a while.  I can’t believe we used to do this for a living.  We were idiots.”

“I won’t argue that point in the least.”   Napoleon set the tray on Illya’s lap.  “We have some chicken soup and chocolate pudding.”  Even before Illya could protest, Napoleon held up a hand.  “Doctor’s orders.”

“It wouldn’t do me any good, even if I did.” Illya sampled the soup and sighed.  “You didn’t make this.”

“Matt did. He said it was the least he could do since he should have taken that appointment.”

“They would have sent him away… I hope. Has there been any repercussions from THRUSH?”

“Nope, not a whisper. We are thinking that Dabree was operating on her own and without their blessings.”

“And now she’s dead for her efforts… just because she couldn’t let go of her hate for you.”

“Some people hate for so long in the end, it’s all they have left.” Napoleon reached out to touch a bruise on Illya’s jaw.  “I’m sorry you had to take my punishment.”

“Not a problem.   It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“I wish I could remember.” Napoleon sighed and looked away.

“I’m glad you can’t.” Illya set down the spoon and grasped Napoleon’s hand.  “Napoleon?”

He looked back at his mate. “Yes?”

“Always forward. Just you and me, that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“I know, it’s just--”

Illya interrupted.   “You can wish your life away or we can live it to its fullest.  Love it to its fullest…”  Illya paused.  “Well, maybe in a few days.”

“You’re really something, you know that, Kuryakin?”

“I do. I’m yours."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
